


My Sins Are All I Have

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Dom/sub, Flogging, Heavy BDSM, Implied Consent, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Masochism, Punishment, Sadism, Sadomasochism, Sexual Content, Time War, Time War Angst, Whipping, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master is the only one who can offer him absolution...</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sins Are All I Have

The sitting room that adjoins the Master’s bedchamber on the Valiant is darkened tonight. The guards have all been dismissed, and the heavy curtains are drawn tight against an inky black sky. A roaring fire crackles in the hearth, the ethereal glow illuminating two lone figures who stand entwined in the center of the room, their bodies pressed together with an urgency only they can understand. It’s been six long, intense months since the last of the Time Lords were unexpectedly reunited. But still their future remains uncertain.

The Doctor sees predatory fire in the Master’s eyes; he is afraid to be here, afraid of the only living being who can offer him redemption. They both have blood on their hands. Even now, the people of Earth suffer as the Master’s wrath comes down from above. But _his_ sins are the ultimate betrayal; because the venerable blood that stains the Doctor’s hands is the blood of Gallifrey, the blood of his own species. For centuries, the guilt and rage weighed heavily on his twin hearts even as he continued to play the hero for so many others. But then he discovered that he was not alone: another Time Lord had survived the War.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the man in the black suit whispers gently in his ear.

“Yes, Master.”

“Why?”

“To pay for my crimes.” The answer is open, sincere.

“Good boy.”

The Master lifts the Doctor’s chin and looks inquisitively into his large brown eyes. The dilated pupils reflect the most primal fear, but something infinitely more complex lurks behind that anxious gaze. The Master peers deeper, losing himself in those expressive, captivating eyes, and within their vast depths discovers the faintest glimmer of relief, of _calm_. And that is when he knows that the Doctor is his, body and soul.

He wraps one arm around the other man’s waist and pulls him into a kiss, biting at his lower lip with a sudden, insatiable hunger. His tongue slides easily into the Doctor’s mouth, and he lets out a low moan of desire as the other Time Lord reciprocates with breathtaking reverence. The Doctor allows the Master to lead, ceding all control to the man who has only just been returned to him. The Master runs his tongue languidly over his partner’s teeth, enjoying the pearly smoothness as the Doctor fervently draws him in, desperate for intimate contact with someone of his own kind. As the kiss deepens, their lips and teeth clash furiously together, until the Master pulls away with deliberate resolve. He must exercise restraint or risk being consumed.

“Do you accept this?” he prompts, breath hot and heavy against the Doctor’s neck. The Master inhales deeply, savouring the unmistakable aroma of nervous sweat tinged with honey sweetness. The inviting scent of a familiar Time Lord nearly overwhelms him as he waits for the expected answer.

“Yes, Master.”

“You know I won’t stop,” the Master warns softly. He wants proof that the Doctor’s submission will be unconditional; there can be no boundaries, no pleas for mercy, if they are both going to get what they need from this ritual of absolution.

“I know,” the other Time Lord replies, the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips.

“Then I will be your judge.”

The Master breaks their embrace with one final, lingering kiss. The Doctor must bear this alone; there will be no more tenderness until the Master decides that he has had enough. At least for tonight. They are the last of their kind, now inseparable for all eternity, and the Doctor will be paying for his sins for a very, _very_ long time.

“Strip,” he commands sharply.

The Doctor’s fingers tremble slightly as he removes his pinstriped jacket and tie. The delicate buttons of the shirt prove more of a challenge, and the Master snaps impatiently as he fumbles with each one. The garment eventually falls to the floor with a soft _swish_ , leaving the Doctor in nothing but his trousers and those silly red trainers. The Master catches a fleeting moment of hesitation before his shaky hands finally move downward to undo the buttons of his fly. The Doctor is clearly ashamed; as the last vestiges of clothing fall away, he covers himself protectively with both hands, as though the Master has never seen his naked body.

“Kneel.”

The Doctor flushes as his knees obiediently come to rest on the Oriental rug. He remains upright and graceful, back ramrod straight and gaze respectfully downcast. His pale skin glows orange in the flickering firelight, but his hands still linger in that false display of modesty. The posture will have to be corrected. With a slight smirk the Master walks to the far side of the room and retrieves a long single-tail whip from a peg on the wall. It’s one of his favourites, and he knows the damage it is capable of inflicting. He then returns to the kneeling Doctor, the fine braided leather coiled in his hands like a serpent ready to strike.

“Bow your head.”

The penitent’s head immediately dips forward, putting his tousled hair on full display. The Master has the sudden urge to grab a fistful of that hair and shove his cock straight to the back of the Doctor’s throat, roughly fucking his mouth until he gags and fights for breath. _Control yourself_. _Plenty of time for that later._ The Master curses his own weakness for only a moment before effortlessly transforming his face into the perfect mask of stern indifference.

“You will suffer greatly for your choices, Doctor,” he decrees gravely, “but you will also suffer because it pleases _me_.”

“Yes, Master.” That, of course, is the caveat. The Master never does anything unless there is something in it for him.

“You can scream as loudly as you want,” the Master continues softly. “But you are only permitted to speak in direct answer to questions posed to you.”

The Doctor humbly nods his understanding, recognizing that the command is one of immediate effect. Their shared history is a long and torturous one; he already knows many of these rules from memory. It’s hardly the first time he has knelt to the Master in submission, but nothing in their checkered past can rival the enormous gravity of this particular occasion.

“Move your hands to the side.”

He does so reluctantly, and soon feels the whip’s tail trailing over his back in long, delicate lines. The Doctor shivers at the sensation, the hairs on the back of his neck standing militantly on end. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, bracing himself for the first crack of the menacing instrument. The Master chuckles. He’s an expert with a single-tail, but he also knows the Doctor: what he can take, how far his body and mind can go, what will give him relief, what will make him break. But even he must acknowledge that the shifting dynamics of their relationship have grown more complicated since the War.

The Doctor startles at a loud _pop_ from the fireplace, blazing ash drifting before him like fireflies as the first sharp blow lands across his upper back with a deafening _crack_. The lash raises a vicious welt but does not break the skin. Several additional warm-up strikes follow in rapid succession, each one more intense than its predecessor, until the tiniest drops of blood spring up on his assailed flesh. The Doctor whimpers quietly but doesn’t cry out; he wants to take his sentence with as much grace and dignity as he can muster. As the initial barrage comes to an end, the Master’s commanding voice once again drifts down to him:

“Confess your sins.”

The Doctor is taken aback by the open invitation; his thoughts are incoherent, and his muddied brain struggles to find a suitable way to express what he’s done. The Master expects a prompt response. He must speak out his crimes; he must acknowledge his guilt.

“I destroyed our home,” he stammers frantically. “I watched it burn.”

“Twenty lashes,” the Master pronounces.

The second set of blows commences hard and fast. The Doctor instinctively begins to count the lashes in his head, but the pain is so excruciating that he quickly loses track of their number. The Master is out for blood now; each strike cracks like an explosion across his back, until the Doctor can see stars dancing aimlessly across his field of vision. He feels his skin being mercilessly torn open, and soon detects the unmistakable warmth of fresh blood trailing down to the very curve of his arse. He grits his teeth and tenses noticeably against the assault, fighting to keep his breathing under control. But still he refuses to scream.

“And what about the Time Lords?” the Master presses him.

“Dead,” the Doctor answers, just like when the Master had asked him that same haunting question so many months before. It might as well have been an eternity ago.

“By whose hand?”

“Mine.”

This time, the Master pronounces no definitive sentence. He merely resumes the punishment with intensified vigour, lash whistling forebodingly through the still air before making contact with its target. The Doctor’s hands clench into fists as he struggles to remain upright; he won’t receive a shred of pity if he collapses. The scourging proceeds methodically, ripping into the tattered flesh over and over again, until his stoic façade crumbles and the first screams of agony are torn from his parched throat. The Master never fails to make the Doctor scream; he bravely holds out, of course, but that only makes the final surrender more satisfying. The Doctor can _smell_ his own blood now, bitter copper mingling with the woodsy smoke of the dying fire. His stomach lurches violently and he fears he may be sick, but the perverse aroma only fuels the Master’s insatiable bloodlust.

“How many, Doctor?” he inquires darkly. “How many did you murder?”

“Billions,” the Doctor whispers. “I…I don’t know.”

“And did you count the children?”

“2.47 billion,” the Doctor recites, choking back hot tears of regret. This is a number that he _does_ recall with horrific certainty. How could he ever forget those innocents?

The whip once again cracks across his back, and he can only shriek mournfully against the hurt and the anger as his flesh is ripped apart with brutal efficiency. The Doctor closes his eyes, and Gallifrey burns bright behind his dampened lids. The children cry out in terror as their home world descends into hell. That poignant image will be scorched into his retinas for the rest of his days. But what would their fate have been if Rassilon had achieved his goal? The entire Universe was at stake—every race, planet, and creed. And the Doctor was the only one who could stop it…

“I had no _choice_!” he cries out miserably, unable to stem the violent torrent of emotions coursing through every fibre of his being. Is this finally his release, or will he instead be drowned in the unrelenting agony of what he has done?

“And who gave _you_ that right?” the Master sneers. “You who call yourself the _Doctor_?”

“I was supposed to die with them!” the anguished Time Lord protests.

The Master strikes him again, the harsh sound like a gunshot in the darkened room. Blood pours down the Doctor’s flayed backside, mingling with the crimson fabric of the carpet in a vast sea of red. The fire’s dying embers smolder in the grate, but the Master is not yet finished with his penitent. He once again draws back his arm, laying another fierce stripe across the lacerated flesh as the Doctor throws back his head and _screams_. His dazed mind is _begging_ for this to stop, and in a stark moment of terror he wonders if the Master might go so far as to kill him. But there is nothing he can do to change the outcome; his fate is now in the hands of another. And isn’t that what he really needed all along?

“You’re no different than me, Doctor.” The brutal words are barely audible over the blood roaring in his ears, but they make an impact nonetheless. He is a murderer: the man singularly responsible for the genocide of two ancient races—one of which was his own.

“I think you have one last sin to confess,” the Master declares ominously, the Doctor trembling in panic and confusion at his feet. “The wrong you did to _me_.”

“I left you,” the Doctor breathes, taking only a moment to catch the other Time Lord’s meaning.

“Indeed,” the Master agrees tersely, “and you won’t ever do that again…”

One final, unmitigated _crack_ sends the Doctor sprawling onto all fours, the room spinning precipitously around him before everything fades away to black…

 * * *

It is long past midnight when he finally regains consciousness. His wounds have been washed and dressed, and he is tucked warmly into the Master’s large bed. The Doctor can’t see past his own feet in the shadowy room; disoriented and afraid, he sits up with a pronounced wince of pain. He doesn’t want to be alone. _Please don’t leave me like this. Please…_

“There now…I’m here.” The Master instantly materializes at his side, raising a glass of water to his parched lips and encouraging him to drink. The Doctor manages only a few sips before a violent cough overtakes him, and the Master gently strokes his injured back until the episode passes. Then he leans forward and plants a kiss on the Doctor’s glistening lips.

“You took that admirably,” he murmurs with affection.

“Thank you, Master.” The Doctor’s voice is hoarse from the ordeal. His body is still wracked with pain, but he can feel the soothing effects of the balm that was carefully rubbed into the gashes and cuts on his back. He has been dressed in violet silk pajamas befitting his status as a penitent; they fit loosely and caress his skin like a whisper.

“But you disobeyed my direct order not to speak out of turn,” the Master chastises, “and for that you will need to be punished.”

“I’m sorry…please no more…”

“I forgive you,” the Master soothes, the note of condescension in his voice going unnoticed by his fellow Time Lord. He guides the Doctor back down onto the pillows and tucks the blankets snugly around him. “Right now you need to rest and regain your strength. Tonight you will stay here with me.”

The Doctor gratefully shuts his eyes as the Master lies down beside him. He has changed into nightclothes of a striking royal blue, a stark contrast to the crisp black suit he favours during the day. “Sleep now,” the Master urges quietly, lightly draping an arm over his lean frame. Exhausted, the beleaguered Time Lord soon drifts off to sleep with his partner watching over him. The Doctor is so tranquil this way, lips parted slightly as his chest rises and falls with every slow breath. It is a long time before the Master closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This story arc continues in [That's How We Have Our Fun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1950525).


End file.
